The Luminous Face

Millicent Lindsay was becoming more and more nervously unstrung about her brother’s death. Hers was a super-emotional nature, and combined with a desperate spirit of revenge, she grew excited every time the subject was discussed. And as she never lost a possible chance to discuss it, the state of her nerves was becoming permanently affected. Not content to leave the matter to detectives, she continually discovered, or thought she did, new evidence, and promptly changed her suspicions to correspond. She transferred her accusations from one suspect to another with remarkable speed and often unjustifiable assurance.

At present she was quite willing to believe in the guilt of Ivy Hayes or Philip Barry, or, as she just stated, to turn back to her original suspicion of Phyllis.

“Oh, Lord,” Barry groaned, “you’re the limit, Millicent! You are quite capable of believing every one of us killed Gleason! Why do you except old Pollard from your mind? He said he was going to do it, you know.”

“Yes; that’s why I know he didn’t! If he had intended it, he wouldn’t have said so.”

“I say, Mill, you do have flashes of insight,” Louis said, “that’s the way I look at it.”

“But I saw Pollard down in the vicinity of Gleason’s place today,” said Barry. “Now, what was he doing down there?”

“Drawn back to the scene of his crime!” Louis chaffed. “They say that’s always done. No; Phil, you can’t hang anything on Pollard. Prescott checked up his movements at once. Also, I want you to drop Ivy Hayes’ name. For my sake, old chap, do let up on that. Now, what about yourself? Explain that letter, boy.”

“I can’t,” Barry looked troubled.

“Oh, bosh. Why not own up you wrote it, but you didn’t mean murder and didn’t commit murder. That’s the truth, you know.”

“No, Louis – I didn’t write it.”

“’Scuse me, but your tone and look are not those of a man telling the pure unvarnished. Now, I know that nobody on this green earth could have written that signature but Philip Barry himself. And I also recognize the typewriter you used. As Prescott says, typing is as traceable as penmanship, and that note was written on the machine in the writing room at the Club. It’s been there for years, and we all write on it now and then. So you see, Phil, you’d better be careful what you say.”

“Be quiet,” Phyllis warned them; “here comes Mr Pollard; I don’t suppose you want him to hear this.”

“Why not?” said Louis, but Barry checked him with a look as Pollard came in.

“May I come?” he said, as he greeted the women. “I’m starving for a cup of tea, and you asked me to come informally and unbidden – ”

“Of course we did,” Phyllis smiled; “sit down, tea is imminent.”

“I’ve been writing my head off all day,” Pollard went on, as he took an easy chair. “Haven’t even been out for a breath of air – ”

“Why – ” Phyllis was about to say that Barry had seen him down near the Gleason home, but she stopped herself in time. She had no wish to trip up Phil Barry – indeed, her feelings prompted her to shield him – but surely, surely, he had falsified in this instance! Why?

There was but one answer. Barry was trying to make Pollard again suspected. Notwithstanding Barry’s insistence on Pollard’s alibi, a stray hint, such as he had given about seeing him down town, made things questionable again.

Quickly changing the subject, Phyllis made the conversation general, and though the Gleason matter cropped up now and then, other topics were mentioned.

Also, Phyllis returned to her great desire to get some of her inheritance at once.

“Why, surely you can,” Pollard said; “how much do you want? Can’t I advance you some?”

“No; I want twenty thousand dollars, and I don’t want to say what for.”

Like a flash, Pollard’s mind went back to that afternoon – the day of the murder – when he saw Phyllis pass him in a taxicab. He had been standing, he remembered, in the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street, and he distinctly saw Phyllis, and a strange man with her. She had not seen him – of that he was sure – and now, as she voiced this strange desire, he wondered what in the world she had been up to.

“I’m not asking what you want all that for,” he said, with a kindly smile, “but maybe you’d care to say.”

“No; I wouldn’t.” Her face was pink, but her voice was calm and her glance at him steady. “I will say, however, that it is for a purpose which no one could disapprove of – ”

“Then why not tell?” Millicent exclaimed. “That’s Phyllis all over, Mr Pollard; she’d make a mystery out of nothing! If her purpose is a good one, why keep it so secret? I’ll tell you why; only because Phyllis loves to create a sensation! She loves to be wondered at and thought important.”

“Oh, Millicent, what nonsense!” Phyllis blushed painfully now.

“Let up, Mill,” Louis said; “my sister is not like that. I can easily understand why she might want a round sum of money, for a perfectly good reason, yet not want to tell everybody all about it. And she ought to have it, too. Lane could give it to her, if he chose – ”

“He says he can’t,” Phyllis said.

“I’ll be glad to lend it to you,” Pollard told her, “as soon as I can get it together. I’ve stocks I can sell – ”

“Don’t you do it, Mr Pollard,” said Millicent. “Phyllis can wait. There’s no such desperate haste – or, if there is – ”

“Hush, Millicent!” Louis spoke sternly. “You’re going to insinuate something about Phyllis and the – the affair – and I won’t have it!”

“Oh, Mr Pollard,” Millicent broke forth, “you haven’t heard about Phil Barry’s note, have you?”

“No, he hasn’t,” said Barry, looking daggers at Millicent; “but, of course, he soon will, so I’ll tell it myself. Why, Pol, a note has been discovered among Gleason’s papers, signed by me.”

“Well, did you sign it?”

“Never! But – ”

“If you didn’t sign it, why bother? Experts nowadays can tell positively a forgery from a real signature. You’re all right. But what was the note? Of any importance?”

“Oh, it contained what might be looked upon as a threat against Gleason’s life.”

Pollard smiled involuntarily.

“We’re in the same boat, then, Phil. You know I’m accused of threatening the same thing.”

“Yes, but you did threaten it – I heard you. And you were just talking foolishly. But this written matter is different. The thing said if Gleason didn’t let Phyllis alone, I’d do for him.”

“Why, internal evidence, then, proves you never wrote it. You wouldn’t express yourself in that way in a thousand years.”

“I haven’t quoted it verbatim. That’s only the gist of it.”

“Oh, well; tell me more. Is it all written by you – apparently?”

“No; but it’s on that typewriter – over at the Club – you know – ”

“I know,” Pollard looked serious now. “A note written on that old junk-heap, and signed by you – I don’t get it, Phil.”

“Of course you don’t, Pol, I don’t myself! There’s a conspiracy against me, I believe! Somebody – ”

“Oh, come, now, Barry, what sort of talk is that? You had no animosity against Gleason – ”

“Oh, didn’t I? Well, then, I did – very much so!”

“Phil, stop!” cried Phyllis. “Don’t you see you oughtn’t to say such things? Please don’t.”